


The Hunger Games à la Supercorp

by gabsrambles



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: F/F, There Will Be Character Death, as more characters appear in the fic I'll tag them, but it wont be the the mains, its the hunger games - Freeform, that's all I'm saying, this has been in my head for like a year, this is a ridiculous fic and im sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25940926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabsrambles/pseuds/gabsrambles
Summary: The Hunger Games with Supercorp:Alex's name is pulled in the reaping. Kara volunteers. What happens when she's in the arena with Lena Luthor, and all the history that girl's name carries?
Relationships: Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor
Comments: 44
Kudos: 136





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This has been buzzing around my head for awhile. I hope you like it. Please be warned, this is The Hunger Games. There is violence. Characters will die. You have been warned! Kara and Lena won't, though. And that's all I'm saying.
> 
> This is using the books as a major guide plot wise, but things are shuffled to fit characters and who they are, and to change a few little things. I've also written this assuming you know most of the background of The Hunger Games setting, because I'm lazy. Sorry about that.
> 
> Annnnnd here we go!

The turkeys peck at the ground, the sound of their gobbling bouncing off the trees. A breeze blows towards them, carrying nothing but the scent of the nearby rivers, of the leaves, of the earth, of the pure blessing of a quiet, safe forest. Behind a tree, downwind for that very purpose, crouched, Kara tracks them just with her eyes. Watches them shuffle about, one pecking at another that gets too close to it.

Her mouth waters. She hasn’t had meat in a week.

District 12 has been crawling with Peacekeepers in the lead up to the reaping. What’s usually forgotten about has a spotlight on it, and it’s meant no hunting since they marched off the train in neat, terrifying lines. Just the sound of their boots is enough to make Kara’s breath catch in her chest. Has the sound echoing in her mind for hours as she breaks out in a sweat.

Alex copes with it even worse.

Which isn’t how things usually go, since she’s the rock.

This morning, the Peacekeepers aren’t patrolling since they’re crowded in the square. Setting up. Dragging out chairs. Filling the place with tech they don’t usually have in 12, making the district look more presentable for the cameras. They’re distracted, like every year, at least for a few hours.

And she has a bet to win.

She notches an arrow. Takes a breath as she pulls it back. Sights the fattest looking turkey there. The biggest.

That’s not true. She gets the one in her sights that pecked the others. There’s really a much bigger one to the left.

Kara just doesn’t like a bully.

Just as she’s about to let fly, there’s a _thwack_ , a sound she knows too well, as the true biggest one is hit with an arrow and dies with a squawk, the rest taking off in a loud fluttering and gobbling as they run away. With a growl of frustration she lets her arrow fly, not prepared for the movement, and completely misses.

“Alex!”

Kara whips around the tree and storms towards her arrow, too precious to leave. Footsteps sound behind her and there’s a self-congratulatory, “Fuck, yeah! I win!”

Muttering to herself and refusing to look at her sister, Kara finally finds her arrow embedded in the bottom of a tree trunk. She seizes it and yanks it free, adding it to the quiver on her back. She takes a deep breath and turns around, where Alex is standing, holding the turkey up, grinning widely.

“That, Kara,” Alex says, while taking a bow with her hands held out, “is how it’s done.”

“By cheating?”

“Me? Cheating? I was here first before you stomped up and almost ruined what I had in my sights.”

“You were still asleep when I left this morning to hunt.”

“That was pillows under the blanket.”

Kara opens her mouth, then snaps it shut. Damn it.

“Aw, little sister. Don’t be too hurt. You’re just on cleaning duty for the next week. I was the first to hunt something in the reaping week. Suck it.”

“Fine.” Kara’s forces a smile. “Fine.”

“One year you’ll win. I’m sure.”

“Hopefully not. This is our last year to be in it.”

“True. It’ll just be me and you and coal mines from now on.” Their mood shifts as subtle as the breeze. “How great.”

They both fall in step walking towards their usual spot to sit before they have to go back to the dreary reality of the perimeter fence of District 12. The forest is lush and cool, moss covering the stones and lower parts of trunks, their footsteps muffled as they walk through like the forest like they’d once been shown: silently, steps masked.

A clearing opens up ahead, a view bursting in front of their eyes as the trees fall away and mountains lay before them, huge, consuming and green. The cliff edge they sit on is steep, falling to nothing, and ahead of them lays only green.

They’re silent for a moment, the presence of what’s behind them almost physical in the way it presses against their backs: district 12, the reaping, and what it means.

Ahead of them, a freedom from the fear of it. Something that feels unknowable. They’ve never lived without fear of it—it’s cast a shadow on their entire lives. From being children too young, watching two of their numbers taken away to never come back—to watch them die on screen, unable to look away. Not allowed to look away. From now, the fear that’s clenched their throats from age twelve, waiting to see if it’s them to go to slaughter. Hands clasped next to each other, palms clammy, as each year a name has been read, and neither has had to go.

How do they even live without that selfish fear? Will it be any better, when it’s not them that have to go, or could have to go? Or will it be a different kind of torture, to grow old and be helpless watching children be marched off for a game that is in no way fun to play?

“We could run away right now,” Alex says, as she does every year.

“And Eliza in the woods?” Kara answers, like she does everywhere.

“Hm. True. Our mum is not cut out for it.” Like every year.

“I got us something.” Alex starts rummaging in the bag she’s never without that’s always slung over her shoulder. It was Jerimiah’s, old and leathery, scuffed as anything. A smell hits Kara’s nose that makes her stomach rumble, and Alex throws half a roll to her with a smirk.

“No way!” Kara smashes the entire thing in her mouth, chewing vigorously until it’s mash in her mouth before she swallows thickly. Alex rolls her eyes and takes slightly more delicate bites. Slightly. When Kara can finally speak again, she asks, “Where’d you get it?”

“Traded three of my baseball cards for it.”

Kara pauses wiping crumbs off her chin, about to lick them off her palm to not waste any of it. “You what?”

Those things were old, collected by kids in 12, leftovers from an age none of them have any memory of. None of their parents even. They show up in the markets, found by scavengers when there were scavengers in their parents time—or maybe even before their parents time—passed around in markets. Some of the Peacekeepers are in on it, paid in varying ways to bring things between districts. Alex and Kara won’t have anything to do with them directly, though. With the meat the two if them could bring they’d be able to get whatever they wanted. But neither of them have ever traded with one, and they never will.

The sounds of boots.

The hammering on a door.

The splintering of wood.

The sliding of a van door.

Gone.

“Only three. You know I have the best collection.”

“I know _Maggie_ had the best collection. You two aren’t together right now.” Kara regrets it instantly as Alex’s face flashes with hurt at the mention of her on again off again, current ex. She bites her lip. “Sorry.”

Alex shrugs, and shoves the last small bite of the bread into her mouth. Kara tries to resist the urge to get to the crumbs on her jacket before Alex does. “It’s fine.” It wasn’t fine, it was all over her face. “Anyway. We needed it to celebrate.” She leans back on her hands, and smiles. It’s a real Alex smile, too. “It’s the last one Kara.”

That pain is smoothed away at this reality. The last reaping.

The last time they’ll have to clutch at each as discretely as they can as the entirety of Panem is watching them through a camera lens as the District 12 escort plucks names from a bowl and reads them like it’s exciting news. Watching kids they went to school with march off to die.

Watching her last living relative be dragged to the games.

Kara’s stomach twists.

Watching Clark make it to the end, hope blossoming in her chest each night he lived. He made it further than any 12 in history, except their one and only victor. He made it five nights. Five long nights. He did things Kara knew would change him forever. But he _lived_. He lived by doing them, and almost came back to her. She’d been nine, staring at the screen watching her fifteen year old cousin almost come back to her. Alex didn’t leave her side, not once.

Then a Career from 1 cut him open with a sword longer than Kara, and her last living blood relative bled out on screen as the crowds from the Capitol went wild.

They loved an underdog story.

They loved it more when the underdog got close but one of their own still triumphed.

This would be the last time Kara has to fear she’d go. That worse, Alex would go, and she’d have to watch that again.

Because she wouldn’t, not again. Would never watch that.

“Your name’s in twenty two times now, isn’t it?” Kara asks.

“We’re focusing on the positives right now, Kara.” Alex nudges her shoulder into hers, staring out at the mountains. She sighs. “But yes.”

And Kara’s was in only twelve. Because Alex wouldn’t let her more, except the odd year they were well and truly desperate. Because Alex protected her.

Alex, who taught her to shoot when Jeremiah…when he couldn’t anymore. Alex who hadn’t wanted a sister, Kara dimly recalls, but got one anyway when Kara’s parents were taken. Alex, who despite that, became the most fiercely protective person. Alex, who is everything in Kara’s life.

Alex, to who Kara owes everything.

“May the odds be every in your favor,” Kara mutters, gleefully licking a crumb off her sleeve. She holds it out. “See! They’re in my favor.”

Alex snorts.

* * *

The sun beats down on them as they stand in rows, dressed in clothes that are dragged out once a year for a day every single one of them hates. The parents and the rest of 12 fill the square and the streets behind the rows and rows of children. The tension in the square could cut be cut with a knife.

Every time she’s stood here, Kara’s wondered what would happen if she stepped into one of the aisles between sweating, terrified children, and let an arrow loose towards the stage to hit the screen. Would the fear be visible as it was sliced through? Would the arrow rend it? Would it slow down sooner than it should, weighted by the anguish of parents, the horror of children, the confusion of babes who can feel their siblings been torn from them?

She imagines it splitting the world in two and changing everything.

But she never moves. She does what everyone else does, and she stands and watches the horror unfold without lifting a finger. She’s watched the youngest of them taken. She’s seen parents break apart at the realization that their child’s been picked. She’s seen one of the teenagers chosen choke on their vomit, brought on by fear as they stand on the stage and tremble at the realization of what will happen. She’s watched it all happen, and watched them go regardless. Watched parents let them go regardless. Watched it happen again the next year.

Regardless.

Alex’s hand hurts, it’s holding hers so tight.

The rickety wooden podium in the middle of the square holds the mayor—a fool of a man, but one with a kind wife who Kara takes medicine she forages and refuses to take anything in trade because the poor woman is so sick—and 12’s Capitol escort: Cat Grant, dressed in a bright red pant suit that comes across as something incredible to look at, but not in the same overdone way as their old escort. The other chair is empty, as it always is at the start.

The mayor reads his usual speech, the feedback from the microphone echoing around the square. A video plays, and right before it cuts in, Alex, says, “War, terrible war,” in a voice that only Kara could hear and she bites back her laugh so hard her lip hurts, because right after she says it, the words are echoed on the recording.

The video, like this process, is the same. _Rebellion. Destruction. Why the games happen._

Kara’s gut hurts, it’s twisting so badly. Behind her, she hears someone sniffling as they hold back fear-filled sobs. She clenches her fist, into her side, her other hand clasping Alex’s.

If she let an arrow fly, right now, and shattered the bowl holding her and Alex’s names, would it help?

Would anything change?

No, nothing would.

Well, one thing. Thundering steps of Peacekeepers. _Splintering wood. Sliding doors._

Kara’s heart thuds in her chest.

Part way through, J’Onn, 12’s only victor in the history of the games, stumbles onto the podium. Someone laughs in the background and a Peacekeeper slams the palm of his hand against the wall he’s against. The glare sent by Cat Grant towards J’Onn could wither flowers, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Just proceeds to slump in his chair and before the video even ends, is asleep, chin on his chest.

The mayor winces as J’Onn snores loudly. There’s another chuckle, a few this time, cut off as several Peacekeepers step forward in warning.

The cameras pan closer to him.

The sun beats down on them, getting hotter.

When the mayor finally sits down, Cat Grant stands up from her chair. When she stands at the podium, there is disdain on her face as she looks down at them all. Then the cameras move closer, and she forces a smile. Kara knows nothing of fashion, only what she sees every day on the screens from the capitol. Cat Grant doesn’t take on the extreme that she’s seen—she somehow tones it down and looks, well, good. Put together.

“Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor.” She doesn’t speak like some of the other escorts they see at the reapings Kara has seen for other districts, and like the one before her for 12. The others are bright, bubbly: too much so. They’re all a part of the show the Capitol wants.

Cat Grant speaks like she is commanding people.

What did she do to be stuck as the escort for District 12? They’re the laughingstock of the games.

Kara knows she was on the news from the Capitol, before. Reporting actual stories, or as much of a story as the Capitol allows. And now she’s here, in 12.

“She’s kind of hot,” Alex murmurs.

And Kara officially bites her lip so hard she tastes a big of blood, a laugh coming out like a sneeze. Thankfully, Cat Grant is talking about the honor of the games and gestures to the bowls of names, and the microphone drowns the sound out. The mirth that’s flared up burns out and Kara bites her lip harder to stop the sudden lump in her throat.

Their names are in there.

Too many times.

“And now, the first tribute.”

Kara’s entire body freezes. All she can feel is Alex’s hand in hers tighten and tighten. Every single child around her holds their breath. J’Onn snores on stage. Cat walks on heels that Kara can’t even fathom the point of, and she walks on them like she owns the podium, to the glass bowl that holds every girl’s name in District 12 aged twelve to seventeen.

She puts her hand in, swirls it three times like tradition dictates, no more. There’s no flare, or extra twirling, there’s no winking at the sea of anxious, horrified faces before her like the escort before—she pulls it out, walks to the microphone. Unfolds it with precision. Reads the name—Kara can see her eyes move across the script from where she is.

Then she reads it.

“Alexandra Danvers.”

The hand that was already hurting hers squeezes so tight Kara thinks she feels it crack.

That could, however, be her heart, cracking inside her ribcage.

“No,” is murmured behind her. Distantly, Kara realizes it’s Maggie’s voice.

Kara’s heart is breaking. Alex is frozen. Kara’s head whips around to watch her face, drained of color, as Alex stares at the stage. Around them, people take a step back from them, creating a circle of space around them.

Kara can’t even blame them. She’s done it herself before. A mingling feeling of relief and sorrow. Guilt at the relief.

It’s the feeling she expect this time. Not this.

They were both just one more birthday away from never having to do this again.

Alex, because she’s Alex, straightens. Kara can see Jeremiah in her stance. In the jut of her chin.

That stubborn streak is from him, Kara knows.

Alex turns, twitches her lips. Then presses them together. The look in her eye as she stares at Kara is concern.

For _Kara_.

Kara shakes her head.

Alex gives her a nod.

Her eyes dart away from Kara’s face, looking at something. “Peacekeepers are coming.”

It’s what they do, if the tribute doesn’t go alone. They force them up on stage. Alex would never want one to touch her.

Alex tugs her hand away from Kara, then pulls her into the fastest hug ever; arms achingly tight around Kara, Alex’s face pressed into her neck, and then she’s gone.

Kara didn’t even get to react. She didn’t hug her back.

Desperately, braid whipping around, she turns, to watch Alex pushing between people—there’s no need to push very quickly, they part, clearing the way for her to reach the aisle. Her foot steps onto it. Straight down that aisle, up the steps, stands Cat Grant, the slip of paper held in her hand and the smile she put on at the start on her face. A camera-ready smile.

Kara hates her.

She hates all of this.

Alex takes another step away from her.

Towards the games. Where Clark went, and never came back.

Eliza sobs somewhere, a sound that could tear a person in two. Kara knows it’s Eliza, she heard it that night of the marching footsteps. The splintering wood. The sliding van door.

Eliza can’t lose Alex, too.

Kara can’t lose Alex.

“I volunteer,” the words whisper out her throat, so tight from the emotion that’s building. The kids nearest to her turn, staring at her, eyes huge.

No one else heard.

Kara careens forward, path easy through the clearance for Alex. She bursts into the aisle and Alex doesn’t even know she’s there before Kara pushes past her, hand pushing her back, square on her collarbones.

“Kara—“

“I volunteer!” Kara yells it. Stares Cat Grant in the eyes, who looks down at her, that smile melting. “I volunteer as tribute!”

“No!”

Alex’s cry, not matter how broken, how frantic, can’t take it back.

Once you’ve volunteered, that’s written in blood.

Not that anyone here would know that—no one’s ever volunteered in District 12.

Alex is grabbing at her hand, trying to yank her back. “No! She can’t volunteer! I want to go—” her voice rises “I want to go!”

Kara refuses to turn around and look at her. She can’t. She must be steel, she must not look. Because she’s not used to refusing Alex and it turns out they’ve just found the one thing she will refuse. Cat Grant is watching them, head tilted, a look on her face Kara doesn’t understand.

“Well. A volunteer. Normally one must wait for the call, but this was a much more interesting play, really. Come up here, then.”

“No!”

Alex’s shout is anguish. It’s horror. It’s pain.

It’s everything Kara felt right before she volunteered and didn’t have time to name.

“Alex, you have to let her go.”

Eliza’s voice. She’s come to try get Alex away before the Peacekeepers do it. Good. Kara doesn’t look around. Takes a step forward. Feels Eliza’s hand on her wrist, prying Alex’s hand away.

Eliza’s voice drops low, just for the three of them, “This won’t help her in the games. She can’t look weak. It’s done, Alex.”

There’s a wrenching sob. The hand falls away. Kara goes on shaky legs, and not once looks back because she can’t, or she will fall apart.

And Eliza was right. She can’t look weak, or they will tear her apart.

Somehow, she makes it up the steps, and stands in the plain blue dress she’s been wearing for years, uncomfortable and hot and sweating. The cameras zoom in, she can hear the sound of the lenses. Cat Grant stands next to her, and holds the microphone over after she asks her name.

“Kara Danvers.”

“Well,” and she gives an amused sound, “I’d bet that’s your sister.”

“Yes.” Kara’s voice is tight.

There’s a pause, and Kara gets the feeling Cat Grant is trying to take the measure of her. “Didn’t want her to have the glory I bet.”

Kara stares out at all the faces, and has nothing to say to that. Just sees Clark, the shock in his eyes as that sword buried to the hilt, and was left in a pool of his own blood.

Glory.

“So, a round of applause for District 12’s first volunteer.”

Not a single person claps. This is 12, after all. The games here represent the loss of children. The thumb they’re shoved under. The mediocrity of coal mines and hunger and never having quite enough. Kara stands and watches them; some faces she knows: she’s taken fruit she’s picked to trade to them. She’s taken weeds she’s foraged that Eliza taught both Alex and Kara could be healing to people who need them. Those she gave for free, and she tried to give with a smile. She sees the baker, who takes squirrels in exchange for bread sometimes. Once, he gave her a cookie. Something sweet and crumbly she still dreams about.

The silence screams on, until at the back, Kara squints, and can see Eliza raise her hand in the three fingered salute mostly used by elders when they want to show respect: usually at funerals, at memorials for explosions in the mines. An old tradition in 12.

One by one, around her, every single person in that square raises their hand in the same. Alex is the last, Kara can just make her out next to Eliza, eyes red rimmed and jaw clenched, hand raised as she stares at Kara.

Kara raises her gaze, and in the background she can see the hills and further back the mountains she’d been in with Alex just that morning. The place they’d been slipping into since before they were even eligible for the games, when Jerimiah took them and taught them what he knew. She wants to run there now, slide under the fence that’s never electrified, because it costs too much power. Run into the woods and hide in the green of it all. Take Alex with her.

She pulls her gaze back to the crowd gazing solemnly at her, hands raised.

There will be no running now.

* * *

The second tribute is a guy two years younger than Kara’s seventeen called Maxwell Lord and is from the slightly more well-off area of 12. His eyes are wide when they call his name, but he walks forward with his shoulders back and stands on the stage for Cat Grant to truly announce them tributes. There is a _tinge_ of relish in Cat Grant’s voice when she restates that this is an _exciting_ year, what with the volunteering.

The anthem starts.

J’Onn is still asleep on stage as Peacekeepers escort them back into the Justice Building and Kara feels her gut roiling at the nearness of them, and moves forward quickly, not wanting them to touch her. She casts her gaze backwards, but all she sees is a sea of faces, and can’t pluck out Alex or Eliza in all the movement as the crowd disperses.

She’s left in a room that is the size of the small house Eliza, Alex and Kara all share. This room is…luxury, is the only word. The surfaces of the multiple sofas and chairs soft and huge. A bookshelf lines the wall, filled with books with gold pressed lettering.

In school, Alex and Kara had shared their books, as the school had one for each two students. They had to be left behind each day, to be used again and again. Entire pages were missing.

There are paintings on the wall and Kara finds herself staring at one of a forest.

They could have just stayed there.

Until they weren’t registered as attending.

Then they would have been hunted down, and dragged back home.

Or dragged into a van.

The door bursts open and Kara jumps, turning. A Peacekeeper is holding it open and Alex and Eliza are barreling in.

“You have three minutes.”

The door shuts and Alex is storming towards her. For a moment Alex pauses in front of her, and Kara isn’t sure if maybe Alex is going to hit her, or push her. Something. Alex probably isn’t sure either.

In the end, she hugs her, hands gripping so tight to her back Kara gasps, but returns the hug in kind, burying her face in her sister’s neck.

“Kara, what the absolutely fuck. Why would you do that.” The words are muffled, said into Kara’s hair. Over Alex’s shoulder, Eliza stares at the two of them, tears tracking down her cheeks, fingers of one hand pressed to her lips.

Alex pulls back when she doesn’t answer, staring at her. “What the fuck!?”

She’s so angry. And Kara can’t even blame her. She would be too. Because they’re a kind, Alex and Kara, even with all their differences.

“I couldn’t watch it again,” Kara lets out.

Alex’s entire face crumples, and she pulls her back in to hug her. Before Kara can respond again, Alex is pulling back, clutching her shoulders.

“Get a bow.” Alex’s fingers squeeze hard, and she doesn’t blink. “Get a bow. Show them beforehand, when they’re doing the training and all the ranking they love to bet on—show them you can shoot. Get a bow. You have a chance with that. You’re a better shooter than me.” That almost makes Kara lose control of her emotions completely, because Alex wouldn’t admit that for anything. “You shoot better than D-Dad.” Her face is crumpling and Kara’s is mirroring her, can feel her control slipping. “No! Mom was right, don’t cry. The cameras will pick it up.” Kara nods furiously, clenching her jaw tight and swallowing. Alex, though, is blotchy, eyes red, swimming with tears. “Get a bow. They just want a good show. Prove they’ll get that with you if you get a bow and then you can win and come home.”

Kara nods again, just as furiously. “Then we can be rich and move into a victor’s house.”

“Just come back,” Alex whispers.

Eliza comes forward and wraps her arms around the both of them and they stay that way until there’s a knock at the door and they’re made to leave.

Before she can be pulled away, Eliza pushes something into her hands.

“This was Jeremiah’s. Wear it.” And the way she looks into Kara’s eyes makes her think this _means_ something.

So she nods, and clutches the metal, still hot from Eliza’s hands.

Kara, then, is alone in this ridiculously overlarge room and she wraps her arms around herself, before looking in her hand, bruises popping up from how tight Alex had clutched her hand when her name was called.

A mockingjay, gold, encircled. A pin.

She smiles slightly.

The Capitol hates a mockingjay.

She slips it into her pocket, feeling just that little less alone.

* * *

They take a car to the station. Kara hasn’t even been in a cart, let alone a car. It’s loud, and bumpy. She doesn’t love it, she much prefers solid ground under her feet. Next to her, Maxwell Lord sits, his shoulders stiff and eyes red rimmed. He’s clearly being crying, and that could be his strategy.

So many strategies have been played out in the games

A few years ago, one girl from District 7, Sam Arias, seemed so weak. It came out that she had a baby, aged sixteen, so already she seemed pathetic, fragile—easy pickings. The crowds of the Capitol loved her—young, with a baby at risk of losing its mother. The tragedy of it was something they ate up. Kara feels sick at the memory of it, the way the crowds had cooed even as they’d bet on her, or against her. Even as they cheered her entrance to the games.

She played that “easy pickings” thing into the arena, where she hid. No one hunted her, thinking her as something simple to track down at the end. With her ranking of 4, why would they bother? When five were left, she’d appeared and slaughtered them all. She’d been an incredible fighter with an axe, proficient, lethal.

She won.

Maybe that was Maxwell’s game? He has a little money, or a little money for 12’s standards. Maybe he’s had some kind of training, like the Careers in District 1 and 2 who train from when they were born to win.

Maybe he’s just a frightened fifteen year old boy.

The train is surrounded by cameras, but luckily it’s quick to move through them. Cat Grant is waiting to shoo them from the car to the train, and after being blinded by flashes and shouts and questions about her sister, they’re on the train and pulling away.

It’s much smoother than the car, and much faster. Through the windows, trees fly past.

“How fast are we going?” Kara croaks out from where they’re seated in some kind of room on the train that’s set up with a table made from wood so polished Kara can almost see her reflection. The luxury continues here, with seats and glasses and silverware set out.

Everything is shiny.

Cat Grant glances at her from where she’s seated across from her, legs crossed like she’s royalty, a tumbler glass of some kind of brown spirit in her hand, held delicately. “250 miles.”

Kara cocks her head. “So it’ll take about 23 hours to the Capitol?”

“That’s fast math.” She continued to look at Kara. “You even took into account the wind at District 4.”

Kara just shrugs.

Maxwell, seated next to her, chimes in. “She was the best at math in school.”

Cat watches her a little more. “Smart _and_ bloodthirsty. Interesting.”

Kara’s jaw clenches.

“Well, you’ll both love the Capitol.” Cat’s voice is neutral. “They always do. Or they’re in awe of it.”

 _They’re_. Like they’re all nothing.

A door opens, and two people walk in, carrying dishes that they lay out on the table. They lift the lids, and the smells that hit Kara make her stomach rumble, loudly.

“Ah, yes. The highlight for all of you.” Cat lazily gestures at the table with two of the fingers wrapped around the glass. “Eat up.”

She speaks like she doesn’t care. Like she is disgusted by them. But there is something about the attempt to sound like that which rings disingenuous. Kara can’t put her finger on it.

Instead of trying, her mouth salivating, she reaches for chicken and Maxwell reaches for some kind of fish. She tries to eat slowly, and politely, but she’s hungry and there is more food here than Kara has ever seen. It could feed at least ten people, and there’s only the three of them. She eats until she’s full, Cat gazing out at the scenery speeding past them and not touching the food. Even then, when full, she eats more anyway. Her stomach aches.

“You eat with slightly more manners than the last ones,” Cat says.

That anger flares up.

“The last ones were starving,” Kara says.

The last ones had less than Kara and Alex, and they don’t have much. They’d been around fourteen, hollow-cheeked and so little for their age. They didn’t last long.

“Yes,” Cat looks at her, glances at the now empty plate that Kara is no longer filling. Then looks at Maxwell, a hand on his belly and eyes glazed. “I realize that.”

And only then does Cat Grant lean over to take herself something for her plate.

Kara cannot figure her out.

The door opens again, and J’Onn stumbles in, a bottle in his hand.

“AH! My mentees.” He looks from one to the other of them. “Well.” He swallows, puts down the bottle, which Kara can now see is empty, and reaches for one left by the people who brought the food. He presses his lips together, looks from Kara, to Maxwell, then to Cat Grant. He sits down, and carefully pours a drink into a glass.

Then he falls forward with a thunk, asleep again, with a snore.

Maxwell laughs, and even Kara smiles slightly. They don’t see J’Onn much. They’d not even been alive when he won the games. To them, he was the man that always looked sad, and they saw him mostly at the reaping, who was usually asleep. Sometimes he did something funny.

“You laugh,” Cat Grant says, glaring at him. “But your mentor is how you would survive the games. They get you sponsors, who help you if you’re starving, or freezing, or have an infection. They train you. They help you set up alliances. They are your _mentor_.”

J’Onn burps in his sleep.

“So laugh away,” she says.

Kara, overfull of food richer than anything she’s ever eaten, feels the sliver of mirth she managed to find slither away.

On the wall, a TV switches on.

“Ah,” Cat Grant sighs. “The full reapings. Let’s see your opponents.”

She takes a large sip from the tumbler in her hand.

J’Onn snores on.

They’ve missed the first few districts, which Kara thinks could be both a blessing and a curse. The first two will be their real opposition. Instead she watches the playthrough from District 5 onwards. Most are in their teens. There is one very young, and Kara’s heart stutters at the way her knees shake on the stage. They finally reach 12 again, and Kara watches herself volunteer for Alex. Her hand twitches in her lap, sore from Alex’s grasp.

Alex is on the screen only for a second, and Kara wants to go back and stare at the image. To freeze it there.

Is that the last time she’ll see her? That second on the screen. A lump grows in her throat.

The commentators laugh at J’Onn asleep on stage. They call 12 _quaint_ when they salute Kara. They talk about the excitement of a volunteer from a district on the outskirts.

Kara’s face burns.

They discuss it like it’s sport. Which has always hurt to listen to.

But they’re talking about _her_.

It hits differently.

“Good,” Cat Grant says. “They’re going to replay it all again.”

They like everyone to watch the reapings. It’ll play all night, most likely, with new discussion as they learn more about the tributes.

District 1 comes on, the podium an entirely different affair to that in her own district. It takes place in a stadium, to start. The podium has gold stands, banners and tassels, chairs and chairs of important people, of victors displayed proudly. Kara’s heart clenches when she sees the one who killed her cousin.

The escort, a man with bright blue hair and sparkles all over his face, pulls a name from the bowl.

“Sandra Flare.”

Sandra Flare, a robust looking girl around thirteen, walks up to the podium with her shoulders back and head high. Not an ounce of fear. Her cheeks are plump and pink. Her hair healthy and shining. Kara touches a hand to her own hair, greasy and in need of a wash. They ran out of the soap they use last week—they needed to trade for more, but with the Peacekeepers everywhere for the week leading up to the reaping, weren’t able to. Sandra Flare stands with her hands clasped behind her next to District 1’s escort.

“Would anyone like to volunteer?”

There’s a pause.

And then more of a pause.

Cat Grant leans forward as the pause keeps going, a spark of curiosity on her face. On the screen, the sound of silence, then a shuffle of feet. Kara swears she sees a look of panic on Sandra Flare’s face.

Then, a voice, clear.

“I volunteer as tribute.”

The camera switches immediately to show a girl stepping forward. She must be Kara’s age, lean with muscle. Her dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail, her eyes a piercing clear green. She has a jaw line that makes something low in Kara’s stomach turn over.

The girl walks down the aisle, up the stairs, and Sandra Flare steps back and disappears.

There’s _always_ a volunteer for each tribute in 1 and 2. Careers.

The escort holds the microphone out. “And what’s your name?”

The question is useless, everyone knows it. This girl is a from a family whose name everyone knows. They’re the darlings of the Capitol. The grandparents are victors. The parents are victors. Their son is a victor.

Their daughter will, most likely, now be a victor.

Their son, this girl’s brother, killed Kara’s cousin in the games, and Kara thinks she may throw up the food she just gorged herself on.

The girl stares straight ahead, no emotion on her face. She doesn’t even lean forward to the microphone, but it still catches her voice, loud and clear.

“Lena Luthor.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your comments! They inspired me to get out chapter two so quickly, you're all the best!

No one in this train carriage knows that Kara could hyperventilate right now at the sight of Lena Luthor volunteering.

She squeezes her hands into fists.

No weakness. She makes herself smile, and nod, when Cat says something about a family of victors that may or may not be a sly comment of her saying that for once one of them should lose.

Kara’s not sure though, because she’s not really listening.

This train is barreling faster and faster towards the Capitol. Towards Lena Luthor, whose brother killed Kara’s cousin. Who will probably kill Kara.

Her heart thuds away in her chest, the sound of her blood rushing in her ears.

The horror of the games have always terrified her. But already, the idea is thumping away in her brain.

_You could get her before she gets you. One arrow. For yourself._

_But also, for Clark._

It’s only been a few hours of playing, and the games are already changing her. Hunting animals always hurts. Snuffing out their lives has never been something Kara does easily. She’s done it to survive. Never for fun. Alex teases her all the time, because Kara chooses the ones that don’t have babies. That bully the others.

Her shooting got so good because she aims for the fastest way to end that animal's life as possible. A clean shot, a fast death. No pain. No suffering.

Her stomach roils. How is she going to kill in the games?

Because if she chooses not to, she will be killed.

That’s the be all and end all.

The TV is droning on, still replaying the reapings.

And Cat Grant’s eyes are on her, not leaving. Her gaze is calculating, and Kara has no idea what she’s thinking. She’d have no idea it was Kara’s cousin killed by Lex.

No one would have any idea.

This is a story no one knows. Kara’s cousin and she had different names. She was adopted by the Danvers and took on their name, their lives. He was so much older.

A card, to hold to her chest. One she has no idea how to play.

And Cat Grant, watching her, head cocked.

* * *

Breakfast is as opulent as dinner the night before and Kara, despite the exhaustion tugging at her from a complete lack of sleep, fills her plate. Again. She doesn’t know how she can lay in bed, missing Alex with something fierce inside of her, then taste this strange orange fruit and enjoy the explosion of taste so much.

It tastes like what she images sunshine would, if it could be bottled and savored.

Last night, she only just drifted off to sleep, finally, as the sky was lightening and when she’d jolted awake to a knock at her door and a curt, “Breakfast!” she could have almost thought she was home.

Almost.

She aches for home. For Eliza. For Alex.

And as she got dressed into her clothes from the day before, she decides to try and block that out. Home, now, is far behind her. Eliza and Alex, all the people she knew, the habits she had. She has to leave them behind and face what’s coming.

She can’t be Kara Danvers simply anymore. She must be a tribute.

She must play a game, or she’ll die. It’s as simple as that.

Maxwell, Max, as he asked her to call him last night, looks as exhausted as she does, black smudges under his eyes. But he also eats with gusto. They finally finish, and again, five minutes pass between them having filled themselves and reaching for the last bite that Cat reaches for her own breakfast, acting as if it’s casual. She stared out the window the entire time the ate, drinking a cup of black coffee as if it’s all she cares about, not even watching them. Today she’s in a yellow dress with what looks like real sunflowers embedded in it, cut in a way that isn’t as extreme as the presenters on the TV droning in the background.

The door to the end of the carriage bursts open and J’Onn walks in, looking worse for wear in most ways, yet more coherent than the night before. He reaches for coffee, first, and Kara feels a sense of hope bloom before he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a flask, tipping it into his cup with relish.

“Now,” he says. But that’s as far as he gets.

Kara snaps.

The butter knife flies towards him before she can stop herself, hitting the flask so it falls from his grip, sloshing everywhere. It clatters to the table, rolls, then slides off, falling to the floor.

Everyone freezes, and J’Onn stares at his empty hand, before slowly looking up and at her.

Kara gulps, and hopes he doesn’t notice.

She’s not one for anger.

Or not _often_ , as Alex likes to point out.

Max, finally, says, “Well, she wasn’t the only one thinking of doing that.”

J’Onn, however, doesn’t look away from her. “Was that luck? Or skill?”

Kara clenches her jaw, then scans the table. She reaches for a knife, sharper than before, and looks to the wall.

“Third slat, three inches above the light switch.”

It hits home immediately.

Alex taught her well.

The arrogance that she feigns is also a gift from Alex, who does it much better than she.

The knife quivers, and Kara pushes Alex from her mind.

J’onn slowly turns around, eyeing the knife. Cat has put her pastry down and has leaned forward much like she did when Lena Luthor took longer than a Career normally would to volunteer last night on the screen. This time, Kara’s quick glance to her, shows a hunger in her eye.

J’Onn turns back. His face is heavily lined, a toll of the games, or of trauma after, or of age, or all three she doesn’t know. He leans his elbows on the table and rests his chin on top of his knuckles. He looks like sheer will holds him up alone.

“You have my attention.”

“Help us,” Kara says.

It’s supposed to sound commanding. Demanding.

Instead, some of her fear has snuck in, and it sounds small. Too pleading.

He hears it. She can see in the way something shifts in his gaze.

Luckily, Max speaks up. “We need a mentor.” He reaches for the closest decanter on the table and starts to move it away from J’Onn. “Not a drunk.”

J’Onn’s hand snaps out, and holds the decanter mid-air, not pulling it back, but not relinquishing it to Max.

He glances over his shoulder again, at the knife still in the wall. He looks back at them and sighs.

“Okay.” He nods to himself. “You interrupted me. I was going to tell you, I’ll be here. I’ll turn up. I’ll do the job.” Kara’s whole face cracks in relief, the smile blooming, and J’Onn looks away from her, to Max, as if the sight of it’s too blinding. “But you don’t interfere with my drinking.”

He snatches the decanter back, stands up, and doesn’t look back at them as he walks out, grabbing a roll on the way. The door closes much more quietly this time.

Kara can’t stop smiling.

“That man,” Cat says, reaching for her pastry, eyes on it, and not either of them. “Used to try. Tribute after tribute though, piled up around him. He didn’t start drinking until long after he was out of that arena.” She takes a bite, leans back in her chair, and looks out the window again. “I’m not sure if the games broke him more, or the constant loss of anyone around him he tried to help.”

The smile melts off Kara’s face, and Max pales.

“We will arrive in a few hours,” Cat says. “You will be surrounded by cameras. You will smile, or look intimidating. However you wish to play it.” She turns finally, and looks at them. “You,” she says to Kara. “Keep smiling. You have a…wholesomeness they’ll eat up in spades. You,” she looks to Max. “I would play meek. That would be my advice, do with it what you will.” She looks back outside.

It’s several hours later, when Max and Kara are seated stiffly on a sofa staring at the TV which is playing the arrivals of other tributes. Nervous teenagers step off trains, young children trip on their way down steps. Some smile and wave to massive cheers and delighted chuckles from the commentators. Some nervously try to smile, but with worse effect. Some make themselves look small, some stand straight, not smiling, frowning at the camera.

At least two look close to tears.

Lena Luthor steps off looking as if she owns the train, the train station, the Capitol, and all the people in it. Her icy gaze moves around the crowd and she steps down off the final step. She starts to move forward, following her escort, staring straight ahead, shoulders back and posture ramrod straight. The other tribute leans over and says something in her ear, and Kara sees her take a breath. She steps forward, and smiles at some of the people thrusting microphones at her, and stops. A rose lands at her feet.

Her smile is incredible, as predatory as it is, and Kara hates that way her stomach swoops again.

“How does it feel to be sixth in a legacy of victors, Lena?”

Lena smiles at them, arrogant and poised. “I will be seventh, actually.” She chuckles, and the sound rings tinny in Kara’s ear. “Just ask my mother, she will remind you.” The words could sound harsh, but she smiles again, and the reporter chuckles, the crowd that heard her answer laughing because they know her mother, her mother is safe to them. “My great-grandmother also won her year. She was twelve. The youngest to ever win, I do believe.”

“Those are some big boots to fill. Any nerves?”

She looks right into the camera, and Kara hates her. She hates her piercing green gaze and her arrogance and her looked-after, glowing skin that you just never see in 12.

“Not a single one,” Lena says.

Max throws a cushion at the screen and Kara turns it off.

“Capitol ass-kissing assholes,” he says.

Kara couldn’t agree more.

J’Onn appears later, a drink in hand. But he’s dressed in clothes that don’t smell like alcohol, and he looks like maybe he slept a little and bathed. He drops heavily into a seat across from them.

“So. You want to live.”

Kara and Max both nod vigorously. He stares at Kara a touch too long, as if trying to piece something together.

“Then you will do everything your stylist tells you to when we get there. Everything. It’ll hurt. You have more hair than they like.” Kara and Max both open their mouths to protest. “I don’t mean the hair on your head.” Their mouths snap shut in sync. What hair?

Kara’s eyes open in horror.

J’Onn nods. “Exactly. That hair.” She can only imagine Max has realized too. “Now, there will be a parade after that. You know the drill, you’ve seen it. You—” he points to Kara with his middle fingers sticking out from where it was wrapped around his glass. “You will smile. And wave. You’re perfect for that goal. And you,” he moves the finger to Max, “can choose to be quiet and meek, or smile too. It’s better if only one of you do that, though.”

They both just nod.

“And training?” Kara asks.

“Can you just throw things and hurt innocent alcohol, or do you have other talents?”

“I can shoot. A bow and arrow.”

J’Onn’s eyebrows shoot up. “It’s you, isn’t it? That brings in game from over the fence to trade.”

She nods.

He stares at her. Too long. It reminds her of the look at the table that morning.

“What?”

“I knew Jeremiah. He was a good man.”

Kara can’t think about him. She can’t. But she has to answer J’Onn, because he’s looking at her almost urgently. Like he needs her to know something. “Thank you. How—how did you know him?”

His face shutters off, and she thinks that wasn’t what he wanted her to know. “We went to school together. That’s all.”

As if trying to erase whatever he was feeling, he takes a long sip of his drink, ever present, then turns to Max. “And you? Any talents?”

Max sits up fairly straight. “I, uh, can run pretty fast. And I’m good at hiding.”

J’Onn doesn’t laugh like Kara thought he might. “Two things that can save your life multiple times.” He cocks his head. “We can work with that.”

But his gaze, much like Cat’s, ends up back on Kara.

She shifts uncomfortably.

* * *

The mountains surrounding the Capitol appear on the horizon quickly, coming up on them so fast that one second they’re far away and the next they’re slamming into the tunnel that leads to it. Before they know it, they’re launched into the thick of the city. Tall buildings, winding, yet oddly organized streets. Glinting light reflecting off all the shiny, metallic surfaces. They only slow down when closer to the station, the change in speed not noticeable at all on board.

The platform is full of people. The entire station is. Full of people holding flowers and shouting, full of cameras, full of reporters, screens hang everywhere playing constant footage of the games.

They’re all cheering. Like they cheered Sam Arias into the arena, believing she would die. Like the cheered Kara’s cousin. Like they’ve cheered one thousand, seven hundred and fifty two children before them knowing only one hundred and forty six of them would come out. Like they’re about to do the same with twenty four more.

It never used to be _this_. Jeremiah told her, once, that it used to be a solemn affair. For a decade or so, it was a punishment more understood, quieter. Angrier, on behalf of everyone.

Then things shifted, and the people of the Capitol evolved more and more to believe they were above, and the rest were not much more than show animals.

And now there’s this.

“Show faces, please,” Cat murmurs behind them where Max and Kara are standing by the window to gape.

Max raises a hand, and waves. Timidly. Like he’s a little afraid.

“Kara,” is stated this time, not murmured.

She smiles. There are children in the crowd, on top of parent’s shoulders and they’re waving desperately at her. One has a braid in her hair, like her own. They’re tiny, chubby, rosy—beaming. She manages, then, to grin back. To wave. When she steps off the train and onto the platform, the roar from the crowd is almost too much. Her names is shouted. Several roses land at her feet.

So she smiles, and waves. Answers some of the easiest questions. Pauses at a harder one.

“And why did you volunteer for your sister, Kara?”

Kara looks directly into the camera, and answers honestly. “I couldn’t handle watching her die.”

The gasps are audible. Some almost delighted.

She doesn’t know it yet, but that will be played almost on loop throughout the districts, but worse, through the Capitol. It will be romanticized, dramatized. Tears will be rung.

An image of Kara Danvers, already in the making.

* * *

Her stylist team is brutal, in a way that Kara never thought was possible. It _hurts_. She’s hosed down on a fancy bed, more times than she can count. Hair is ripped from all over her body by hot wax, and all she can think is how many people could use that wax for candles back in 12. Constant refreshments and food appear, and she has trouble saying no to any of it.

There are four in the team attacking her, and they giggle and primp and move about like butterflies. One even has wings attached to their clothes that could almost be real.

They’re kind, in their own way. They offer compliments on her hair, washing it out at least four times with products that smell chemically, yet incredible. Something hot is put over her head and they gasp when they remove it, her hair tumbling around her shoulders in soft waves. They whisper to her that her eyes are brilliant blue, and that Nia will love it.

“Who’s Nia?”

“You’ll see. She can’t wait to meet you.” One of them, with bright purple skin, winks at her.

They ask her about her sister and mutter that she’s brave. One of them even tears up a little. They hover about with little pincers and pluck out any remaining hair that isn’t on her head and Kara feels more naked than she ever has in her life. Finally, a robe is slipped on her and she’s left sitting in the room that’s far too bright, surrounded by gadgets and things she recognizes as make up, but in far more variety than she’s ever seen as the odd lipstick that had shown up for trade in 12.

Being alone isn’t good, as she has time to think.

So she starts moving about, picking things up. She opens one jar of something and, expecting a delightful smell like what her hair is now giving off, sticks her nose into it to whiff.

She gags. “That’s revolting!”

There’s a laugh behind her, and Kara spins, cringing. A woman stands, brunette, understated in how she dresses, much like Cat Grant. But, like Cat Grant, she is elegant. Poised. Her clothes cut in a way that make her look incredible, not like a flashy bird like the others. She has light, shiny blue around her eyes, the only accent she wears. Her hands are buried in her pockets and she rocks back on her heels.

“That’s a cream for foot fungus,” she says.

Kara gags again and slams the lid on, putting it down. In her fumbling, it knocks off more creams that fall to the ground. “Oh, gosh. I’m sorry.”

In a flash, she’s on her knees, trying to pick them up. There’s another warm chuckle.

“Just leave it, I’ll get it later.” Kara slowly stands, and Nia walks over, holding an enthusiastic hand out. “I’m Nia Nal, and I’ll be your stylist.”

Kara takes the hand, shaking it, feeling like the first real smile is on her face all day. She knows introductions that are normal like this. This she can do,.

“I don’t recognize you?” Kara asks, more than says. All the stylists are known. They create the image, they get lauded in the Capitol.

“I’m new.” Nia finally lets go of her hand with one final squeeze.

“Stuck with the loser district then?”

Nia grins. “I asked for 12.”

Who knows what to say to that? Saved from an answer, Kara watches dishes and plates be brought in. The food is constant. She’s full, having been offered food constantly the last few hours. But here are trays and trays of cooked meat, of stuffed vegetables. Of things she doesn’t even recognize. The trays are put down and the servers leave, and Nia just watches her. There’s enough food to feed her entire area in 12.

“How disgusting we must be to you,” Nia says softly.

What can Kara say to that? Because it’s true.

They sit on a sofa and Kara sits too straight, uncomfortable again. An ache hits her stomach for familiar: she wants home.

She can’t go home.

“So, Kara. I will be your stylist. I’ll create an image that yes, represents your district—don’t make that face, you won’t be a coal miner like every other year—and for you that will help get you sponsors. This is what I want: to give you a chance. Let me ask you a question?” Kara looks at her, and Nia is leaning forward with a little too much excitement. “Are you scared of fire?”

It’s not long until Kara’s been stuffed into some all black costume—it’s almost like some kind of armor. It feels…good. She stands straight in it, shoulders back—she won’t lie, it feels powerful. Her hair is left out of its braid, flowing, in a way she’s never gotten to wear it. It’s in waves, soft around her face. But her make up is almost dramatic, creating a stark contrast. There is some kind of liquid in her hair, on the back of her clothes, that Nia promises will light up, but not actually burn her ( _probably_ she says, flinching away before Kara can open her mouth). She’s lead out by Nia and the stylist team, who gush over her, and meets Max, in a similar get up as her own, but make up darker around his eyes. He nods to her, and she nods back.

It’s a short walk to a huge, open room, filled with chariots and horses. Being District 12, their chariot is at the back, closest to where they’ve just entered. However, only half the other tributes are there, standing by their chariots, looking at the other tributes, whispering with their mentor, with each other. Some stand close, talking with the other from their district like they’re friends. Others stand awkwardly apart, arms crossed over their chests. There are tributes dressed like lumberjacks, or in rippling blue silk to represent water.

Kara scans the room for District 1, in spite of herself, but she’s not there yet. _They’re_ not there yet. Both from District 1 will be dangerous to her. Cameras buzz around, projecting their preparations in this room to the districts, to the screens outside where Kara can hear the roaring, cheering crowd. Kara makes sure to smile, and wave at one.

_What would Alex think?_

_That I’m trying to win._

There’s a buzz behind them as some doors open and Kara spins in time to be completely dazzled. Two tall, strong people walk out, not getting lead out like she and Max did. Both the people are glittering, their entire bodies lit up, cheeks blazing with shimmer. Togas are draped over them, showing off their muscles and their forms, the togas covered in the jewels that reflect the industry of District 1.

Lena Luthor walks directly towards them, chin high, having to pass by them in the line of chariots to reach the one at the front for District 1. Her hair is in dozens of intricate braids and her neck is long, glittering like the rest of her. Her eyes seem greener than is possible, greener than they had on the TV screens and as she approaches, Kara realizes they’re going to walk straight past herself and Max.

_Her brother killed Clark._

She’s only yards away now, walking on the side closest to Kara, the other tribute next to her, head held arrogantly and not even looking at the rest of them except to smirk. A camera zooms in on Lena Luthor, and pans back from them to take a shot as Lena’s head turns, just slightly, and her gaze falls on Kara. She slows down, just a little, and Kara feels like everything else does, too.

Lena Luthor walks closer to her, green gaze locked on Kara’s, the other tribute pulling ahead, not noticing or caring that Lena has slowed down.

Kara doesn’t breathe. Lena’s close to walking into her, not altering her path, and Kara refuses to move. To step back.

Not from a Luthor. Never.

Lena’s shoulder brushes passed Kara’s chest, and she never breaks the hold of her gaze. So Kara doesn’t, either. She doesn’t blink, nor breath, nor move.

She doesn’t give an inch to Lena Luthor, and Lena Luthor does the same.

And then the moment is gone, speeding up as Lena’s passed her, head turning to look forward again as if Kara’s nothing, a very, barely there smirk tugging at the corners of her lips and she’s gone, walking smoothly to her chariot at the front.

A camera stays on Kara’s face.

A commentator’s voice reaches her from the booming speakers outside.

“Oh ho ho, a rivalry already? And one so delicious? Fantastic. The parade hasn’t even started.”

Kara smiles at the camera, wiggles her fingers.

She’ll kill them with niceness, if that’s what it takes.

The parade is a blur. As the doors open, the noise only increases and Max clambers up next to her. The others pull away in front of them and as their chariot starts to follow, Nia and Max’s stylist hold a flame to their backs and, suddenly, Nia grinning like a maniac at her own creation, they’re on fire as their horses start moving, the flames curling behind them.

“It’s not burning us,” Max breathes in relief next to her.

The crowd they ride into is enormous, stretched out to all sides, hanging out windows, crowding balconies, and Kara catches sight of themselves on giant screens that are just everywhere.

The effect is beyond what she could have imagined. The fire starts at the ends of her hair, billowing behind to join the trail of fire from her back.

The crowd goes absolutely bananas.

Flowers rain on them, the commentators call their names. They wave, they grin. Max plays shyer. Kara plays friendlier.

Thanks to Nia Nal, District 12 will be talked about.

They ride for a long time, winding their way through the city to reach the presidential palace and one of the screens shows Lena walking passed Kara from before, their gazes lock and the picture slowed down. The sight is shocking, Kara barely recognizing herself after the stylists ministrations, the look in her eyes, all but squaring off against Lena Luthor. It pauses on that image, and Kara is shocked at the hatred on her face. And the slight smirk on Lena’s. The host of the show it’s on is on the screen then, grinning, and Kara’s glad she can’t hear him anymore over the cheering. The cries of the people hanging out their windows cover everything.

They finally reach the palace, where President Rhea Daxam stands, in an all-white suit. She’s tall, thin, with dark brown hair and a gaze that feels like it shoots through you.

The anthem plays as the chariots surround the foot of the stage she stands on and she greets them all as if she knows them. As she speaks, her voice bouncing off the buildings in the night air, the flickering lights of their costumes are impossible to ignore. The screens around them flick from one district’s chariot to the other, but they constantly bounce back to theirs, their image striking on fire. And then, at the end of Rhea Daxem’s speech, every screen becomes a split screen, of Kara and Lena Luthor’s face—Kara’s surrounded by a halo of flame flickering in the darkness, and Lena, face like ice, glittering.

The image is glued in Kara’s mind even as they pull away, moving back to the training center. It feels deathly quiet in there as the doors close after the roaring noise of the crowds outside, even as the sounds still filter inside. Nia gleefully douses them in some kind of spray from a cannister that puts out the flames, and the prep team surrounds them, gushing. Around them, other districts shoot them dirty looks. A limelight stolen. Sponsors maybe won.

Kara can hope.

They’re surrounded by their team still as District 1 walks passed them. The team hushes a little as they walk by, the boy from 1 blatantly ignoring them, refusing to look over. A camera is on them, Kara can hear that lens noise that is starting to haunt her.

Lena’s eyes, again, on her, unblinking, unsmiling.

Kara will never know what comes over her.

But she smiles, then presses her fingers to her lips and blows a kiss to the Career from District 1 who will most likely be the literal death of her. Outside, the crowd goes wild.

Inside, Nia snorts softly next to her, and mutters a, “Careful.”

Lena doesn’t even react, just turns her head away as she walks away from them like before. But Kara could swear she could see a tiny bit of angry red flushing up her pale neck, even under all that glitter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NIA WILL NOT GO THE SAME WAY AS CINNA IN THE GAMES! I normally don't do spoilers, but Nia is safe. That is all.


End file.
